Deal Come Due
by Marianna Morgan
Summary: AU Pilot – Mary, John, Baby Sammy, Kid Dean – Mary remembers her deal and knows what the demon wants. But he's not getting it. What's hers will stay hers...deal or no deal.
1. Chapter 1

**Summary**: AU Pilot – Mary, John, Baby Sammy, Kid Dean – Mary remembers her deal and knows what the demon wants. But he's not getting it. What's hers will stay hers...deal or no deal.

**Disclaimer**: Not mine.

**Warnings**: Spoilers for events in the Pilot, plus usual language.

**A/N**: This story has been in the works for a loooong time, but it seemed appropriate to wait until today (November 2nd) to begin posting it. Thus far it has three chapters already done. We'll see where it goes from there...

* * *

_Wait until that deal come 'round. Don't you let that deal go down. ~ Grateful Dead_

* * *

Her first clue on that Wednesday afternoon in November was the unmistakable stench of rotten eggs.

But having happily – _gratefully_ – been out of the hunter's life for several years now, Mary Campbell Winchester simply wrinkled her nose against the odor and suspiciously eyed the Styrofoam egg cartons stacked in the refrigerated crates.

"Something smells a little off, huh?" she commented to her six-month old baby.

Mary smiled when Sam babbled, seemingly in agreement, and then lifted his chubby arms up to her from where he sat in the seat of the grocery cart; his dimpled smile matching his father's.

Knowing what her baby wanted, Mary shook her head; her blond hair pulled back on either side of her face and fastened with a tortoiseshell clip; the long, loose strands skimming her shoulders and brushing against the collar of her light brown coat.

"Mommy can't hold you right now, Sammy," Mary told her baby, reaching into the cart for something to distract her six-month old; still annoyed with herself for leaving his favorite toy – a floppy stuffed moose – back at the house.

Sam turned where he sat, curiously watching as his mother's hand hovered over several items in the crowded cart and finally grasped the only thing that made noise _and_ was baby-friendly – the container of salt meant to refill the shakers at home.

"Here..." Mary said, offering the small round container to Sam and waiting for him to take it; briefly remembering a time when salt meant more to her than just being a condiment; when it meant safety and protection; when a line of those tiny white particles literally separated life and death.

But those days – those _hunting_ days – were over.

She hadn't salted anything except food in years.

Mary sighed, inwardly shaking herself – because salt was just salt to a normal wife and mother like herself – and smiled encouragingly at her six-month old.

"Take it, Sammy," she told him, still holding the salt container within the baby's reach.

Sam did so hesitantly, accepting the salt refill with both hands; his fat little fingers wrapping around the cardboard packaging even as his forehead remained wrinkled in confusion.

"It's okay," Mary assured, smiling as Sam frowned at the little girl in the yellow dress holding an umbrella on the container in his hands. "Just play with it for a minute," she further encouraged, readjusting her purse strap across her shoulder. "Mommy's almost done, and then we'll go home and see what Daddy and Dean are up to, okay?"

Sam smiled at the mention of his brother's name and flailed his arms excitedly, pausing when he realized there was noise coming from the salt container he held.

Sam turned wide eyes to Mary as if to make sure his mother had heard.

Mary smiled. "I knooow," she agreed, drawing out the word theatrically; her blue eyes wide as she nodded at her baby. "Pretty cool, huh?"

Sam squealed his delighted agreement and shook the container again.

Mary laughed and affectionately squeezed her baby's sock-clad foot before checking her watch; frowning when she realized it had apparently stopped; its second hand no longer ticking.

"Huh..." Mary mused, slightly irritated – having just recently replaced the watch's battery – and hoped she hadn't been in the store longer than she had intended; knowing she needed to get home and cook dinner before both her kids and her husband got cranky.

Mary smiled to herself at the thought – knowing John would probably already be cranky enough from trying to work on his car while keeping an eye on Dean as well.

"Bet Daddy will be happy to see us," she told her six-month old and then turned back to inspect the eggs even as the rotten smell – _sulfur_, her instincts reminded her – persisted...maybe even intensified.

Mary wrinkled her nose again and glanced at the list in her hand; trying to remember how many eggs were still in the carton at home in the fridge and thinking maybe she would skip getting another carton this week.

Beside her in the cart, Sam happily babbled to himself; repeating the same sounds over and over in his own unintelligible language while continuing to shake the salt container like a maraca.

Mary smiled warmly at the sounds of her sweet baby and then glanced up at the ceiling as the grocery store's lights briefly flickered.

"Hi there, buddy," a man suddenly called from beside her – from _right beside her_ – and Mary startled; wondering how she could not have noticed a stranger getting so close to her – and to her baby – so quickly; briefly remembering a time when no one would have been able to sneak up on her no matter how fast they had moved.

_When you get comfortable, you get sloppy_ her dad used to tell her when talking about hunting skills...and it seemed he was right.

Not that it mattered.

Because Mary was no longer a hunter.

She was a wife and a mother and a very satisfied inhabitant of normal.

But it still bothered her that this man had approached her without her noticing, and she could picture her father's disapproving scowl even now, almost ten years after his death.

_...and your deal_, Mary's conscience reminded, never missing an opportunity to haunt her with the memory of what she had sealed with a kiss that night back in '73.

Mary blinked – scattering the image of those yellow eyes that had glowed at her from her father's face ten years ago – and shifted where she stood; uncomfortable with the man's continued proximity and with the way he was looking at her baby.

"Cute kid," he remarked and smiled; his expression overly friendly, _overly familiar._

"Thanks," Mary returned, the word courteous but her tone hesitant and wary; increasingly uneasy with the way the stranger continued to stare at her...and at Sam. "Do I know you?"

The man shrugged. "Maybe. I never forget a face."

Mary swallowed, feeling even more anxious – even more _suspicious_ – at the intentionally vague answer and then glanced at her six-month old as Sam suddenly started to cry in that high-pitched wail he always did when he was scared.

"Awww..." the man drawled and frowned at Sam; reaching toward him as though to comfort the screaming child. "What's wrong, buddy?"

Sam's cry only intensified as the man stepped forward, and Mary moved on instinct, placing herself between the stranger and her baby with speed she had forgotten she possessed.

"He's fine," Mary assured, her smile polite but her tone warning as she held the stranger's gaze; daring him to touch her child.

The man withdrew his arm – no longer reaching toward Sam – and stared at Mary; a strange, almost amused expression on his face...as though he had been testing her in some way and now wasn't sure how to rate her reaction.

Mary tilted her head; suddenly feeling as though she _should_ know the man standing mere inches away – because he certainly seemed to know her.

Behind her, Sam continued to wail; throwing the salt refill to the floor in his distress – the seal of the cardboard container breaking open on impact – and frantically reaching for his mother.

Mary felt Sam's little fingers grabbing at the back of her coat, and she turned; stuffing her grocery list back in her purse and kicking the open container of salt as she spun around, scattering its contents across the tiled floor.

The man arched an eyebrow at the white crystallized particles unintentionally flung in his direction and took a cautious step back.

"Shhh..." Mary soothed her distraught baby; lifting Sam into her arms and rubbing his shuddering back through his denim blue coat.

Sam's face scrunched as he continued to cry; tears rolling down his chubby, flushed cheeks.

Mary sighed, feeling her heart twist; hating it when Sam was this upset and had worked himself into being almost inconsolable.

"It's okay," she quietly assured her six-month old; her hand continuing to lightly pat Sam's small back as she gently bounced him in her arms. "It's okay..."

"You're good with him," the man commented approvingly and smiled when Mary turned to face him again.

Mary said nothing but held her baby tighter as she felt Sam bury his face into her shoulder; his tears dampening the collar of her coat along with the collar of her white shirt underneath.

"How old is he?" the man asked conversationally, continuing to stare at Sam as the baby clung to his mother; his small hands fisting the light brown fabric of her coat.

Mary didn't answer; instead narrowing her eyes at the realization that the stranger was no longer standing so close; that he had moved back; that he was now several steps away from her...and from the line of salt between them.

Mary felt her heart begin to beat faster; years of being a hunter – of intentionally laying salt lines – instantly rushing back to her, reminding her of which supernatural being didn't like salt – _demons_ – and what they smelled like.

Mary glanced at the stacks of egg cartons in the refrigerated case to her right and then back at the stranger; remembering that sulfur was often described as smelling like rotten eggs...and that sulfur was one of the hallmark signs of demons.

Along with stopped watches and flickering lights – like had happened seconds before the man's approach...

Mary swallowed, quietly shushing Sam as he seemed to become more agitated; the baby undoubtedly reacting to the slight tremble of her hands and to the feel of her heart hammering beneath him as she held her six-month old protectively against her chest and remembered the conditions of her deal.

_In ten years, I need to swing by your house for a little something_, the yellow-eyed demon had casually told her that night in '73 while possessing her father's corpse...and she had thought about the meaning, the implication of those words every day since.

She would lie awake at night – beside the man she had loved enough to make a proverbial deal with the devil – and would wonder how the demon would find her so many years later and what he would come back to claim.

Mary had especially lived every moment of _this_ year – 1983 – looking over her shoulder.

And now it seemed she had finally come face-to-face with what she had been looking for – or rather...what had been looking for her.

Mary swallowed again, feeling the familiar mix of paranoia and fear creep over her; that emotional cocktail with an extra shot of adrenaline that always accompanied a hunt.

"Christo," she whispered as she stared at the stranger standing across from her and waited for a reaction.

But there was nothing.

The man's eyes did not flash black...or any other color.

But he did smile at Mary amusedly – _knowingly_ – like he was aware of what she was doing, of what she had expected to happen.

"Say what?" he asked her, keeping up the pretense.

Mary shook her head and rubbed her baby's back as Sam took a hiccupping breath against her shoulder. "Crisco," she recovered smoothly, having always been a good liar. "I just remembered I forgot the Crisco."

The man chuckled, watching as Mary held her child and walked parallel to the line of salt on the floor; wondering if the young mother knew the white particles really had no effect on him; that he was above such a simple ward; that he had only stepped away from the salt to further give Mary a clue as to who he was, to see if she remembered.

And judging from her reactions, she did...which was good – because he always enjoyed a worthy opponent in his game of Finders, Keepers.

The stranger smiled. "Going somewhere?" he asked her.

"Just going to grab the Crisco before I forget again," Mary reported casually, even as she was already scanning the neighboring aisles for a quick escape from the grocery store. "Watch my cart?"

The man nodded, even though his expression told her that he knew she wasn't coming back. "Sure," he agreed.

Mary's gaze lingered on him; visually cataloging his hair color, eye color, height, clothing, and the features of his face; determined to remember every single detail in case she saw him again...because she somehow knew she would.

Sam shifted in her arms, having calmed from how initially upset he was but still whimpering and restless as he squirmed against her chest.

"It's okay," Mary soothed her baby. "Mommy's got you," she assured him, still lightly patting the six-month old's back as she warningly glared at the stranger and then disappeared down the bread aisle.

The man remained where he was, kicking the salt line with the toe of his boot as he watched her walk away.

"See you 'round, Mary," he promised under his breath. "And your little Sammy, too," he added, chuckling at his cleverness and at the thought of his plan for later that night.

* * *

_**TBC**_


	2. Chapter 2

"When's Mommy coming back?" Dean asked, glancing over his shoulder and staring up the driveway as he stood on an overturned wooden crate beside the Impala.

John chuckled tiredly from where he was ducked under the car's open hood, wondering how many times he was going to be asked that question by his four-year old.

"Daddy..." Dean prompted impatiently, turning back to face his father.

"What?" John answered distractedly, reaching his hand beneath the Impala's radiator hose.

"Will Mommy be home soon?" Dean rephrased, glancing again over his shoulder.

John sighed, not begrudging his wife time to go to the grocery store – and thankful that she had taken Sam with her – but wishing Mary was home _now_ so she could also take Dean off his hands. Then maybe he could actually get some work done on his car without having to stop every five minutes and play "20 questions" with their four-year old.

Not that John minded Dean's questions.

But he was more used to his oldest asking questions about the Impala...not about Mary; liked it better when his son was helping instead of worrying – and his patience was beginning to wear thin, especially after already putting in a full day's work down at the garage across town.

"Daddy..."

"Dean..." John responded; his tone clipped as he pushed himself back from where he had been leaning under the Impala's hood and straightened to his full height. "Mommy will get home when she gets home, okay? She's only been gone an hour."

"I know," Dean agreed, seeming unfazed by John's irritation as he pushed up the sleeves of his _I'm the Big Brother_ shirt and casually propped his elbows on the side of his dad's muscle car and leaned back.

John snorted, amused – and maybe a little touched – by the image of Dean resting against the Impala like she belonged to the four-year old. "Then why do you keep asking me?"

Dean sighed; his expression indicating that sometimes he worried about John being so clueless. "Because she left Sammy's moose."

John arched an eyebrow; his gaze following Dean's pointed finger over to the workbench at the edge of the carport.

"What's that doing out here?" he asked at the sight of the brown floppy moose lounging on a paper towel among the various car parts, as if the damn thing was on vacation at the beach.

Dean shrugged.

John frowned, wiping his greasy hands on his jeans. "Well, it didn't get out here by itself, Dean."

"I know," Dean answered, hopping down from the crate and following his father over to the workbench. "I brought it."

John shook his head, lacking the energy to ask why. "Take it back inside," he told his oldest, handing the stuffed animal to Dean. "You don't want Sammy's toy to get dirty, do you? You know he sleeps with this..."

"I know," Dean agreed easily, taking the moose. "That's why I brought the towel to put him on. I was just watching him for Sammy."

John shook his head again, not understanding the logic of a four-year old, and then turned when he heard tires crunching gravel.

Dean did the same, beaming when he saw his mom's dark blue minivan slowly coming up the driveway. "Mommy's home!" he needlessly informed his dad, and then frowned, tilting his head.

John arched an eyebrow at his oldest son. "What?"

"Sammy's crying," Dean reported, sounding equal parts concerned and annoyed. "I knew I should've gone with them..." he muttered, tucking the moose under his arm and stomping toward the parked minivan.

John chuckled, never ceasing to be amused at how Dean acted when it came to Sam; as if the four-year old was the primary caretaker of the baby and needed to supervise his parents at all times.

John shook his head, following behind Dean and realizing as he approached Mary's vehicle that his oldest was right – Sam was definitely crying...that shrill, hiccupping wail babies cry when they're overly exhausted from being overly upset.

John frowned as Mary opened the driver's side door and stepped out of the minivan at the same time as Dean slid open the backseat door; Sam's cry becoming instantly louder with the removed barrier.

"What's all this?" John asked, watching Dean climb into the backseat and feeling slightly alarmed at how frazzled Mary looked; her face pale, her hair a messy tangle on her shoulders from where he knew she had nervously twirled the blond strands all the way home. "Mary..."

Mary swallowed nervously but said nothing; instead hugging her husband and closing her eyes in brief solace when she felt John's arms – his strength, his protection – surround her in return, holding her close.

Mary sighed shakily; her hands bunching the faded black fabric of John's shirt as she held onto him tighter.

John's frown deepened at Mary's uncharacteristic silence – at her even more uncharacteristic clinginess – and watched as Dean settled beside a still screaming Sam.

"Mary..." John called, rubbing his wife's back as he felt her tremble against him. "What's wrong? What happened?"

Mary shook her head, taking another shaky breath before opening her eyes and pushing away from her husband; glancing over her shoulder just as she had done since she had left the grocery store parking lot; checking her rearview mirrors obsessively to make sure that man – _that demon?_ – wasn't following her home.

John tracked Mary's gaze down the driveway but saw nothing; only the usual passing traffic in the quiet neighborhood along with a few older kids riding their bikes and making their way home for dinner.

From the backseat of the minivan, Sam continued to cry despite Dean's best efforts to appease him; the four-year old perched in the seat alongside his baby brother and offering Sam's favorite toy, that floppy stuffed moose.

"It's okay, Sammy-Sam-Sam," Dean told the six-month old in his best cartoon voice; bouncing the stuffed moose in front of the baby.

But Sam only seemed to cry harder; flailing his arms and kicking his feet in renewed distress.

Dean frowned. "What's wrong?" he asked, his tone indicating that he was becoming distressed as well.

John narrowed his eyes; pissed that his wife and baby seemed to be scared shitless and he didn't even know why...or who to punish.

"Mary..." John called and waited for his wife to face him. "What's wrong?" he asked again. "What happened?"

Mary swiped the back of her hand over her forehead and held it there, trying to gather her scattered thoughts; wanting to tell John everything – _absolutely everything_, like she should have done so long ago – but knowing now wasn't the time, not with her baby screaming and her four-year old listening.

"Mary..." John prompted, his concerned tone becoming clipped with annoyance at not being answered.

Mary sighed, recognizing the signs of her husband losing his cool. "We were at the grocery store..."

John nodded impatiently, because that part he knew.

"And Sam got fussy," Mary continued. "So I – "

"Fussy?" John repeated incredulously; wanting to laugh at what an understatement that description was as Sam continued to sit in his car seat and scream.

"What did you do to him?" Dean demanded; his tone as accusatory as his expression as he stared out the minivan door at his mother while still bouncing the stuffed moose in front of Sam's flushed, tear-streaked face.

Mary arched an eyebrow at her four-year old, in no mood to deal with Dean's overprotective streak. "Nothing," she defended.

Dean gave his mom a doubtful look. "Sammy doesn't get this upset over nothing," he countered and then refocused on the baby sitting beside him. "What's wrong, Sammy?" he asked, as though he expected the six-month old to answer him...and apparently he did.

There was a beat of silence as Dean narrowed his eyes in concentration and stared at his brother.

John smiled, his nerves briefly soothed at the sight. "Dean...the Sammy Whisperer," he remarked quietly to his wife.

Mary twitched an answering smile to her husband, even as her nerves were still raw from the experience of that man – that familiar stranger – standing so close to her and Sam; looking at them like he _knew_ them; like they somehow _belonged_ to him.

Mary shuddered, wrapping her arms around herself and feeling John rub her back in response; as though her husband thought she was cold from standing in the crisp November air as the sun began to set.

If only that was the problem...

Dean nodded at Sam as if the six-month old had told him something and then turned back to look at his parents standing in the driveway outside the minivan. "Who scared him?"

Mary blinked at her four-year old's question. "What?"

"Who scared him?" Dean repeated, having abandoned the moose to the floor of the vehicle and instead choosing to soothe Sam with his own touch; his small hand between the car seat straps, gently rubbing his baby brother's heaving chest as Sam continued to cry.

Mary swallowed and shifted under her four-year old's gaze and then glanced at John as she realized he, too, was waiting for an answer.

She sighed. "There was this man..."

"Man?" John echoed; his tone sharp at the thought of some strange guy being the cause of Mary and Sam being so obviously rattled. "What man?"

Mary swallowed again, absently twirling her blond hair around her finger; wanting to tell John just who she suspected the man was...but well aware of how bizarre that would sound. And also aware that Dean was still looking at her and listening.

Mary shook her head, playing off the incident for her four-year old's sake. "Just some guy that was kind of creepy..." She shrugged as though it was no big deal even as she stared meaningfully at her husband. "We'll talk about it more later."

John narrowed his eyes – wanting to know _right fucking now_ if some man had threatened his wife and baby – but nodded his agreement to wait.

Mary returned the nod and then sighed; mentally shaking herself while trying to regain her composure.

Because although she was as freaked out and scared and panicked as she had ever been...she was still a mom – which meant she had a game face to maintain and at least a dozen jobs to do before she could let her guard down and tell John everything.

Her kids were depending on her to keep it together; to figure this out and to handle the situation she had created ten years ago.

And that was exactly what she was going to do – right after dinner and bath time and bedtime...and right alongside her husband.

Because even after all of these years, Mary was still a hunter; still had the skills and the knowledge to save her family.

She just hoped she would have the time to figure out _how..._and that she would have the support and understanding from John after she told him about the deal she had made that was now coming due.

Mary sighed again and glanced at John before turning her attention back to the minivan; smiling and feeling inexplicably calmer as she realized Sam was now quiet and was sleepily staring at Dean.

"Well, look at you..." she commented approvingly to her baby as she stepped closer to the vehicle and then winked at her oldest. "Maybe you _are_ a Sammy Whisperer, Dean."

Dean nodded. "I am," he agreed, his small hands expertly unstrapping his baby brother from the car seat. "It's my super power."

"Ahhh..." Mary mused and nodded her understanding. "Guess that makes you better than Batman, huh?"

Dean scowled and shook his head. "Nobody's better than Batman," he wisely corrected his mother and then glanced at John. "Except maybe Daddy."

Mary laughed and heard John chuckle behind her as she reached for Sam and lifted him from his car seat.

"Do you think it's 'cause I'm so awesome?" John asked his wife as Mary held their baby and turned to face him.

Mary rolled her eyes good-naturedly but smiled at her husband; so incredibly thankful for this man – for this life – and freshly determined to not have any of it taken from her...deal or no deal.

"I think it's 'cause I'm so awesome," John answered himself, winking at his laughing four-year old and then ducking his head to look at his sleepy six-month old as Sam rested against Mary's shoulder. "What do you think, Sammy?"

Sam blinked drowsily at his father and smiled when John affectionately tickled his side.

"Hmm..." Mary hummed, patting her baby's bottom. "I think somebody's wet."

"That's babies..." Dean reported with a shrug – as if Mary didn't already know that fact – and scooped Sam's stuffed moose from the backseat floorboard; tucking the toy under his arm as he jumped out of the minivan.

"Be careful, Dean," Mary warned, setting her baby on her hip while holding her hand out to her four-year old.

"You worry too much, Mommy," Dean told her; the gravel crunching under his small feet as he slid the van door shut behind him and then playfully shook Sam's sock-clad foot before grabbing his mother's hand.

Mary smiled sadly at the truth of that statement – because she _did_ worry too much...but with good reason – and glanced at her husband as Dean took John's outstretched hand as well.

"No groceries?" John double-checked as they walked up the driveway toward the front porch of their house.

Mary shook her head. "No. I'll have to get them later. When Sam got so upset, I just left the cart and came home."

John nodded, still wanting to know what _really_ happened at the grocery store but content to respect Mary's request to wait until later, until after the boys were asleep.

"So what's for dinner?" Dean asked, a hint of alarm in his voice at the thought of not having food to eat.

Mary laughed lightly and glanced at Sam as her baby sighed shakily and laid his head on her shoulder, clearly exhausted from his crying jag.

"Mommy..." Dean prompted, staring up at her as they walked.

"I vote pizza," John announced and winked at his oldest when Dean looked at him hopefully.

"Yeah!" Dean agreed loudly and then looked back at his mother. "Please?"

Mary laughed and rolled her eyes at Dean's typical four-year old whine as he begged for his favorite food.

"Mommy..." Dean said sweetly and batted his green eyes; his impish little grin revealing he knew exactly what he was doing. "Please? I love you."

Mary's smile lingered but then faltered as she felt the warm sting of tears behind her eyes; knowing Dean was just trying to charm her into agreeing to pizza for dinner but suddenly feeling overwhelmed by emotions...because she loved him, too...and Sammy and John.

She loved them _so damn much_.

And she couldn't lose them.

She just _couldn't._

John narrowed his eyes at his wife's tearful silence. "Mary..."

Mary blinked and glanced at her husband, reminding herself that it wasn't good enough to just _get_ a grip; she had to _keep_ a grip...at least until she figured out just what the hell she had gotten herself and her family into.

Dean's gaze flickered between his parents; his patience waning. "Pizza...yes or no?"

Because if the answer was negative, he would have to begin his campaign for chicken fingers and fries...

Mary laughed lightly at Dean's bluntness and at knowing his thought process behind the question. "Sure," she conceded and then lifted her arm at the same time as John; the parents swinging their four-year old up and forward.

Dean laughed; still managing to keep hold of Sam's stuffed moose under his arm as he swung forward and then stuck his landing; still holding his parents' hands as he beamed up at his baby brother. "You hear that, Sammy? We're having pizza for dinner!"

"Well..._we_ minus one," Mary corrected and softly kissed Sam's head on her shoulder. "No pizza for you just yet, little one."

"Aw, Mommy..." Dean lamented, laughing again when his parents swung him up the front porch steps.

Mary smiled, releasing Dean's hand as he gave her the stuffed moose and then bounded through the front door of their house; the four-year old shouting something about Batman before disappearing up the staircase, undoubtedly going to his room to retrieve one of his action figures.

John shook his head at Dean's antics and then held Mary's gaze as he shut the door behind them. "You okay?" he asked her as they lingered in the hallway, one hand smoothing his wife's hair away from her face and cupping her jaw while the other rubbed Sam's back.

Mary nodded hesitantly, leaning into John's touch and holding her drowsy baby a little tighter against her hip as she listened to Dean running around upstairs; not regretting her deal – because she would have never had this life without it – but feeling her heart twist at the thought of now losing everything she loved because of it.

But maybe not...

Maybe there was still time.

_Maybe._

Mary sighed, clinging to that possibility while trying to smile reassuringly at her husband even as tears threatened to well.

Because _maybe_...but _maybe not_.

Maybe her time was up.

And her deal was due.

And that was that.

Then what?

Mary swallowed.

John watched his wife, narrowing his eyes at her silent response. "Mary..."

"I'm okay," Mary soothed, readjusting her hold on Sam as the baby squirmed in her arms.

"Like hell you are..." John replied sharply, knowing his wife wasn't telling him something – something important, something _life-changingly serious._

There was a beat of silence.

"Mary..." John began again.

Mary shook her head. "Not now..." she reminded, pushing past John to change her wet baby. "We'll talk later..." she promised over her shoulder and disappeared up the stairs with Sam.

John sighed harshly but nodded as he watched them go, already eager for dinner to be over; for the kids to be in bed and for the truth to come out...whatever that was.

* * *

_**TBC**_


End file.
